You Can Call Me Harry
by StrangersPearl
Summary: Voldemort didn’t just hide his horcruxes in different places, but also in different times. Of course, Harry follows. One horcrux landed in 1976.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. I write fanfiction without making money, so it won't be perfect and will most likely have some plot holes. Feel free to review.

Summary: Voldemort didn't just hide his horcruxes in different places, but also in different times. Harry follows. One horcrux landed in 1976.

Chapter 1 – Frozen time

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Blackness. Not really darkness, just blackness. If he tilted his head (he had a head!) the blackness would weaken a shade or two. He didn't know how long he was, or was not, but eventually he came to the conclusion that he had eyeballs. No glasses that scratched the back of his nose. Slowly the sensation of having a body came to him, and he let out a low painful grunt. Everything hurt. Not physically per se (even though this body had a nasty wound in the side), but mentally. It was painful to bind your soul to another body. So many bindings and procedures that could go wrong. Another grunt. At least, he was a boy this time around.

…Or was he?

He was still Harry, in his soul. He still had his memories and feelings and personality. So in that sense he was absolutely a boy. But the body…? Please, please, please Merlin or God or even the friggin' four founders  
of Hogwarts or whatever, whoever had the power… He really, _really _didn't want to be a girl again. He tried to save the bloody world, he didn't have to suffer more than necessary. For years, he had thought that Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil had made a phoenix out of a plumage, but he had learned that he was wrong. So wrong. He hoped that they would forgive him and Ron someday for making fun of them. Hermione  
never mentioned any pains or cramps or anything related to the functions of the female body. Later she had told him that everything is individually, so they may not have hoaxed as much as he and Ron had thought.

He hoped he was a boy. During his first time/soul-travel his soul had bound itself to a body of a young girl. Never again. Horcruxes to be damned, but no. It wasn't just the pain and the hormones (he didn't cry that  
much usually, did he?), but frankly and cynically speaking, you could just travel more anonymously as a boy. The advantage was that people seemed to trust a girl more, though.

He let out another grunt. If he wasn't a boy, maybe he had become a great-aunt or something to Milicent Bulstrode.

The thought was horrifying and the reason he actually took the energy to roll off his stomach and sit up, looking around.

It was foggy. White, thin veils that began to lessen were all around the neighbourhood. The sun hid behind a thick blanket of clouds, his hair and clothes were damp and he began to slightly shiver. The after-effects of a Dementor's presence made itself known. Grouting had coloured his clothes and hands a ghostly white. He was in a ruin of a house. He felt sick. Partly because of the bonding, he admitted. Partly by the obligatory conditions needed to make such a bonding. He couldn't just enter a body and push away the soul that lived there, or use a body that died for a reason. It had to be a relatively functional body without a soul. If this boy, whose body was now his (because it was a young boy), it would not be illogical to think that he had been Kissed. The thought was sickening, even without counting Harry's own experiences in third  
year. He didn't dare to look at the poor sod's memories. Now he was Harry Potter, with a body on loan. It wouldn't do to steal the other boy's identity. And it didn't seem like anybody would care if their son was another boy for some months ahead.  
He could distinguish the body of a woman, partly buried, at the bottom step of some stairs that had been blown off. So not just Dementors had been here, then. A pair of man-legs showed in the doorway to a room close by.

Carefully Harry staggered to his feet. He looked around; the whole neighbourhood looked the same. Smoking ruins in the fog. Eerie silence. Not even a bird. The trees should have been green and lush, but their life-energy seemed gone. All that was left was hanging, almost grey, leaves that didn't even have the strength to rustle in the wind. The feeling here was the same as in his own time, or when he was in the 1940s when Grindelwald was at his peak. Voldemort could apparently not hide his horcrux in a time of harmony and peace. Harry sighed and turned around to go, but stopped when he saw the little girl. Chun. She was half hidden behind the destroyed fireplace. Harry had covered her before he began to move. Chun. Thoughts and a grief that wasn't entirely Harry's own rose through his throat and eyes. The boy had been Kissed,  
trying to protect his sister Chun. At least she was properly dead, pieces of the fireplace half on top of her. And yet he couldn't feel grateful at all. He didn't block the grief or the anguished cry that was for Chun, _his _Chun, and Harry just added more power to it when he began to think of the friends that he had left behind, and even more when he thought about the friends that had left behind him. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair,  
how soon it passed for others while for Harry it just continued on and on. He didn't want to die. Of course he didn't. But he didn't want anyone else to die either. At least Hermione was left. How was she feeling to be left alone, while he was sent back? Bored, uneasy, anxious? She was the one not knowing if something went wrong where he was, and she was the one that would know if something went wrong with his body. Someone needed to be the keeper, but if they could trust anyone else he would've liked to have her with him. She was smart and would surely know what to do, so that no one they knew became unborn.

But most of all she would understand him, what he went through. And maybe he would understand her. It pained him to see her hiding her sadness behind a brusque attitude of directness. If all the runes and all the procedures and all his actions were right, then they would succeed and everyone would be saved. It is human to dream. Maybe the thing that hurt the most was the silence between them. Both of them knew, and wanted to talk… But they just couldn't. Not now. If not now, then when? Not now, not soon. Maybe later. Maybe later it would be too late.

He tried to free Chun from the stones, but he was much too weak. He had to begin to exercise this body as soon as he could. And before that, he realised, he had to get medical treatment. That wound in his side didn't feel good at all. He stumbled up, muttered something inconsistent to Chun about taking care of her later (she couldn't hear him, could she? Why did he bother?), that he would be back as soon as he could, fixing things, but in order to do that he had to take care of himself. This was all about him. Without him, everyone would die. If he didn't leave now, everyone would leave him behind. And if he didn't leave now, he would be caught by either aurors (which wasn't a great alternative, as he didn't know if they were corrupt or not) or the guys that had made this whole mess, which would be a worse alternative. He might as well try to keep the body alive when he had gone through all that pain. It still lingered, tingling in his fingers and knees and throbbing and pounding in the space between his eyes. If it increased, his eyes would pop out.

The landscape didn't change that much, with ruined houses and worn-out trees. He tried not to look at all the bodies, or sense the horrible smell of despair and destruction. The fog remained, he couldn't deduce if it was morning or evening, which increased the feeling of time being frozen. The haziness in the vision the fog created (or didn't this body have a correct eye-sight?) made it all the more dream-like. Unreal. Like the after-effects of an intense nightmare where the uncomfortable feeling remains.

What seemed like ages, but could as well just been some hours, the fog began to lift. The sun was shining, and he, Harry Potter, looked like a ragamuffin in an ordinary suburb. Blackbirds were singing, children happily screamed and a pair of old ladies at a café nearby was aghast at the improper sight of the young man. He swiftly ignored the outraged whispers about youngsters these days, took a pair of sunglasses at a  
stand nearby without stopping and continued to walk. The contrast between the fog and the burning sunlight was almost too much, he wanted to get away. And that was when he realised that he hadn't got a wand to call for the Knightbus.

He strolled around some more, people keeping out of his way. By a newspaper he got the information that he was located in a suburb relatively near London, in July (a surprisingly chilly month, but that could be because of the Dementors) in 1976. He stared at the year. No. Fucking. Way. Voldemort was a bastard, even if Harry doubted that this year had been a part of a great plan. Of course  
the snakeface just had to be a bastard unintentionally too. This could be disastrous. He didn't want to meet his parents, their friends, their enemies. This wasn't how he planned things to happen. He smacked his tongue irritably, something he picked up from McGonagall. It took some seconds for him to figure it out, shock getting in the way of the thought-process, but if his parents were alive that would mean that Dumbledore would be too.

A sad but warm feeling spread in his chest, contracting his heart. He could get answers. He had another chance to meet him. But it wouldn't be his Dumbledore, not really.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, increasing the headache. It may not be his Dumbledore, and he may look at the old man more critically, but at the same time it was the man Voldemort truly feared. This case wasn't lost, this time Harry could talk with someone that may understand… at least understand better than most people. Harry alone didn't have to fight against Voldemort, now he had someone else to rely on.

He felt better than he had in a long time. Now he just had to go to the Leaky Cauldron.

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A/N: First chapter, oh joy.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. I write fanfiction without making money, so it won't be perfect and will most likely have some plot holes.

Chapter 2 – Oh, happy ignorance

The problem of getting to the Leaky Cauldron had the shape of an unusual hot day, something that hadn't seemed likely that very morning. Harry gazed up at the sun, figuring that it was early afternoon by the shadows it was casting.

The bonds to the body had now stop aching, being replaced by a numb feeling, that by experience Harry knew would last around two days. He didn't even feel the wound in his side anymore, or his throat that had been dry as sand some hours ago. Now he just sat on a bench in a park, in the shadow of some lilacs, considering what he should do. First of all, where was he? Where was London? And why did a kid stare at him with dark soul-less eyes and a drooling mouth?

"You don't have a glass of water, do you?" he rasped. This voice, though hoarse, was a little lighter in the tone than his own voice in his own body. The body was probably younger than Harry himself was. Harry had hoped to be a grown-up, as people don't but into other adults' businesses. If he was a child, there was a risk that people would suffocate him with cotton and feel that he was their responsibility.

A great clunk was heard beside him, and there was the kid with a glass of water.

"Oh… um… thanks", Harry said, awkwardly. He never really expected the kid to get it for him. He drank slowly, uncomfortable at the kid's stare. When the glass was empty, he put it down beside him, and waited for the kid to do something. Nothing happened, just that bothering stare.

"Um… haven't your mother told you not to associate with strangers?" If the kid behaved like this for every people he met, he would be dead meat if he ever stumbled across a Death Eater.

"I have, and he still does it every time!" said an upset voice behind Harry. It was so sudden that Harry jumped out of surprise and nearly knocked down the glass. The blonde, plump woman lifted up the child into her arms while apologizing to Harry profusely.

"He's such an adoring child, just wanting the best of everyone. Every time he sees someone that seems…", here she stopped, thinking over her words while glancing at Harry's grating-covered clothes, "…less _lucky_ than most people, he wants to help. Well… sorry for the trouble and good day." And then they were gone, just to be back again a minute later. Under the other arm of the mother, was a dirty-white sweatshirt that didn't look like it had been properly cleaned in ages.

"This one is my husband's; he was going to throw it away anyway." Before Harry knew it, he had the sweatshirt in his arms. He stuttered thanks, mostly because of surprise, but the woman seemed to think it was of gratitude and smiled gently. Before she had begun to walk away too long a distance, a plan formed into Harry's head and he called out:

"Sorry, Mrs… but can… can I borrow your phone?" He tried to sound more insecure than he felt, younger, more innocent. "I need to call my uncle and I... don't have any money." The last part he said very fast, like he was embarrassed. It was kind of sad that he had to develop such actor skills, but it worked. He could practically _sense_ the mother feelings crackling in the air, encircling him. If she had been a redhead, he would almost mistake her for Mrs Weasly. That thought brought tears that he wasn't quick enough to notice and dispose of before they had fallen, which added to the blonde woman's concern.

"Of course, dear" (so he was a _dear_ now? Tears were indeed useful, even if that move had been unintended) "just follow me. Our house is just round the corner." Harry nodded gratefully and followed.

It was a quiet neighbourhood. Children played, flowers were everywhere, sneaky neighbours that peaked over their rosebushes. Everything was so _normal_. So peaceful. So unreal. It was a little over a year ago Harry had last been in a place like this, the day he had left the Dursleys. It felt like a lifetime. He didn't miss the particular neighbourhood, but more that period of his life when things weren't as complicated. Dumbledore alive, Ron alive, Harry in his own time…

They walked into a house almost covered by green rhododendron bushes, with withered flowers everywhere on the grass. The hall that led to the living room (and the telephone) was dark, after having been out in the bright sunlight. Harry lifted the telephone receiver while the mother put the kid to bed in the next room. He knew she listened closely, while she doted upon the child. He waited for awhile, long enough for an imaginary uncle to pick up the phone. He imagined that he talked to a fretting Aunt Petunia when she talked to Dudley in the phone.

"Yeah, hi, it's me, Harry. Yeah, I know. Yeah, I'm sorry. … Hm? … Mm. … Yeah, some drunks robbed me, but I'm fine. Can you call mum so she doesn't worry? They took all my money. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, not hurt anywhere. Just got a scare. This nice lady lent me her telephone. … No, I don't usually follow strangers, but this was an emergency, and she was really nice. … Yeah, I can get to London, don't worry. I'll find a way to get money to the ticket. … Yeah. … Yeah. Mm. I love you too. Don't forget to call mum. Bye."

He hoped he hadn't overdone it, when he put down the receiver. Maybe every parent wasn't like Aunt Petunia? When he turned around to face the mother, though, he realized that at least this woman was like his aunt, with the exception that she cared as much for other children as for her own.

"Oh, you poor _dear_! If you had only said something! I thought it was strange… Why would a child like you" (Harry bit his tongue so he wouldn't correct her. He hadn't been a child for years.) "be alone? In that outfit too… So horrible! And your poor mother… As a fellow mother I cannot stand for it, no I can't!" By this time Harry figured that she was talking to herself rather than to him, so he just kept quiet. She didn't seem to notice. "Well, my husband is going to London tonight, so you can travel with him. But before that, we have to clean you up a little." While she ushered him upstairs and giving him towels and a set of old clothes ("My husband doesn't fit in those anymore.") she continued to fawn over him, and Harry's feeble attempts to say that he would really be fine, she had done enough, just added fuel to her determination.

"But really, dear. Those _sunglasses_! I almost thought that you were a robber, not the one being robbed! It gives people the wrong impression of you. Why don't you take them off?" Harry flinched involuntarily. It wouldn't be good to take them off. It would ruin everything.

"I… I would rather keep them on…"

By her sudden understanding expression, the woman seemed to get to a conclusion.

"Of course, dear. I understand." She said, in a much more gentle voice (if that was even possible). "Now, clean up yourself and I'll make some snack. My husband will be home soon enough."

In the bathroom, Harry studied his new face. Well, he could see why she had took him for a child with the way he acted, but really, this body was not that young as she had given him an impression of. An Asian boy of perhaps fifteen, sixteen years looked back at him in the mirror. This body was not yet fully grown, and Harry let out a sigh for the growth-ache that he may experience – _again_. Well, at least it was better than rheumatism. Emerald green swirled in the boy's black irises. Harry hoped it would stop soon, he couldn't afford suspicious glances. The sunglasses would have to do. At least, this time around, he could hide the eyes. It had been much more difficult in the 1300th century. He almost started the witch-hunting a couple of hundred years too early, just because a muggle got sight of his eyes. At least, he thought with a grim sort of satisfaction, this boy would be taller and broader than Harry himself. In some months he may be passed for a young adult without that much doubt.

The wound in his side was a disgusting sight, and Harry was grateful that he couldn't properly feel it. The black shirt he had been wearing had clustered against the wound, and flakes of dried blood had dropped to the floor when he took off the shirt. Really disgusting. He figured it would be easier to clean the wound now when he wouldn't feel the pain, than later. Most of the time in the shower was spent on cleaning the wound and trying to get rid of the grating in his hair. Extra time was needed when he had washed away the grating (and also the dried blood) from the wound, which resulted in it beginning to bleed again. It was a large gash in his side, going from his right armpit to his hip, an inch wide at its widest. How the _hell_ had he gotten that? Small cuts in his face he hadn't noticed began to bleed too. When he looked at them in the mirror, he shivered. They looked like big teeth marks, from something that wasn't a human… Disgusting. Utterly disgusting. He swallowed hard, trying not to throw up.

He didn't know if it was the best thing to do, but when the wound didn't stop to bleed he took a towel and his dirty shirt and tried to bind a pressure on the wound. The white sweatshirt he had gotten effectively hid the temporary bandage. The sweatshirt was so big so Dudley would have looked like a little boy in it. No wonder the woman thought he was a child, with a husband in that size.

When he was done in the bathroom (when the bleeding had eventually stopped), he quietly went down the stairs, sunglasses firm in place. The husband had gotten home, and at the moment the woman told Harry's story with much more detail and exaggeration than Harry had given her. He lingered by the door, unsure how to act, while the wife convinced her husband about their _duty_, no their _luck_ to be able to do something good in the world. Merlin. How had the man survived her talking abilities? He had seemed to learn how to handle it, though. He gave the sunglasses a disbelieving look, but didn't comment, grunting that they would go to the train station by half an hour.

"What… what about payment?" Harry asked, while being shoved into a stool with a small mountain of sandwiches before him. The husband grunted again, while the woman cooed that no payment was necessary, just that they were happy to help, his _poor_, poor mother shouldn't even need to worry.

"Is… is it really alright?" He couldn't bring himself to eat the sandwiches before he knew for sure.

"Of course, dear! Now eat! Honestly, if they think we starved you… Henry, can you call his uncle? What's the number, dear?"

Harry chocked so hard so that Henry had to give his back two powerful slaps. What was the point of going back in time if he almost died the same day?

"I don't think it's a good idea…" The woman raised her eyebrows. Shit. He couldn't ruin this now, when he was so close… He took a glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter past two. "He works now. And his boss is very…", theatrical pause ,"strict. It wouldn't be good to call him now." The worrying frown just increased on the woman's forehead. "But his work is not far from King's Cross. I practically grew up there, so I know the way, and the boss won't kick me out if I stay silent." The woman still looked doubtful but her husband grunted his acceptance (did he ever speak a word?) and pointed at the clock. They didn't have much time left. Harry quickly finished off the rest of the sandwiches and drank the glass of milk in one gulp, thanked her for her hospitality, telling her that he wished she would meet his mother one day not mentioning that she would be sixteen years old at this moment, and accepting a great hug that would be warm and very, very painful if he had had any working nerves left.

Soon, Harry figured that Henry was actually a very talk-active person, when not in his wife's presence. If this was evidence of a great relationship, Harry didn't want to speculate in, but he suspected more during the end of the train ride that Henry wasn't going on a business trip at all. Wisely, Harry didn't say anything, and when they stood at King's Cross Henry was more than happy to be left alone without any goodbyes. Harry thought he saw someone with long, curly hair greet Henry, but he ran too fast to actually get a proper look. He felt sorry, though, for Henry's wife. Her life wasn't what she thought it was. And maybe she was happier to be oblivious than to know the truth

***

The Leaky Cauldron was as grubby-looking as ever. Harry took a deep breath before going into the dark pub. It looked like it would do twenty years in the future, with no much difference to notice. The bartender Tom looked the same as well, except that he perhaps had some more real teeth. Harry walked self-consciously up to the bar desk where Tom talked to a man with vividly red hair. Perhaps he was a Weasly? Harry forced himself to not look at the red-head. He waited until Tom's attention was on him. Harry saw in the corner of his eye how the other man studied him, giving a weird glance at the sunglasses.

"You're Tom?" he asked with a low voice.

"I am", answered the barman, peering at the boy. The clothes were muggle, but they fit so oddly, that the man didn't doubt that the boy was a pureblood wizard with no clue about the muggle-world. The question was why he would meet such a young boy (or was he already a man? It was hard to tell with those sunglasses.) dressed in that outfit in these dark times. But maybe it was because of the dark times he met this kind of children. Last night the young Sirius Black had come in and ordered a room, obviously running away from his family. Perhaps this was a similar matter. And then the boy (man?) seemed to crack his neck, but Tom saw that the youngster had given the people in the pub an evaluating glance, seeing the eyes behind the glasses going rapidly from side to side. Tom stiffened slightly, enough to let Gideon notice, and too subtle for the youngster (man?... yes, definitely a young man) to take care. A quick glance at the side, and then Harry asked in a lower voice:

"Is there a way for you to give a message to someone?"

"That depends", said Tom, carefully. It was hard to hear how young the voice was, when spoken so low. "Who's the receiver?"

Harry looked at the old man, the bald reflecting the lamplight. As far as Harry knew, Tom was loyal to Dumbledore. And he had been the first person greeting him back to the wizarding world, with tears in his eyes.

"Albus Dumbledore."

"It can be fixed. But why don't you go to an owlery?"

Harry blushed involuntarily. He hoped it wouldn't show that much. It was always frustrating to depend on others.

"I don't have any money… And I heard that it absolutely would reach Dumbledore if I gave the message to you." He saw the look Tom gave the other man. "I'll pay you back of course", he added quickly. "But I have to reach Dumbledore as quickly as possible."

Tom blinked at the intense tone of the last words.

"Dumbledore is away a couple of days. Headmaster-businesses, you know." Harry's face fell slightly. Away? Dumbledore was _away_? What the hell was Harry supposed to do now? Tom gave him a piece of parchment and a quill that had seen better days. "Write a note to him, and I'll send it tonight. Be careful with secrets, though." Harry nodded and thanked him. He pondered a little what he would write, resisting the urge to put the almost ancient quill in his mouth.

_Headmaster__ Dumbledore_

_I would like to meet you as soon as possible._

_It is most important that I can talk with you._

Here he stopped, looking up.

"Is it possible for me to stay here, until Dumbledore answers? I mean", he hastened, "I don't have any money, but I can cook and clean… or I can pay back later, if you want that." He silenced himself when he realized that he blabbered. Tom was looking at him with a calculating look in his eyes.

"What about this: You stay the night here, and if the offer still stands tomorrow I'll think about it." Harry practically beamed at him. "You have to share room, though, everything else is full. And I would warn you Mr…"

"Harry. Just Harry." Here, he figured, the title the Boy-Who-Lived wouldn't be useful. Here he was 'just Harry', even if it were only for appearance.

"Harry, then. The youngster you're sharing a room with is strongly objected to the dark arts, so choose topic carefully."

"I don't think we'll have a problem, then. Thank you." Those two words were the most honest ones he had ever said in this time.

_I am staying at the Leaky Cauldron for the moment, and if I move, Tom will know where I am._

_/ Harry_

He folded the note and gave it to Tom. Tom folded the parchment and put it in his pocket, before going round the bar desk.

"The rooms are upstairs. Gideon, you'll take care of things." The other man, Gideon (Prewett? Molly Weasley's brother? That would explain the red hair...), nodded. It seemed like he was used to be a substitute for Tom from time to time.

Harry followed Tom upstairs, down the corridor to a spaced room with two bunk-beds in it. The one at the left wall was already occupied, so Tom steered Harry to the other bunk-bed.

"This is a shared room. That means shared responsibility, but also a lower price than if you would've had a single room." He stated some quite obvious rules about consideration to the other occupant in the room, cleaning, and stuff like that. When he was sure Harry would be fine on his own, he began to leave the room. He halted at the door.

"Where is your luggage, Harry?" He didn't know if he liked this familiarity that a first name could create; it tended to weaken the suspiciousness of one's character. He didn't trust this Harry yet, but he thought it would be better for Harry to think that he did. This was suspicious times, after all.

"I don't have any."

With a grunt that could have been either sympathetic or just accepting, Tom left Harry for himself. Harry, tired from the time-travelling, immediately fell asleep on the unused bed, in shoes and all.

***

Some time later, when the sky lighted up the room bright red through the window, the creaking door was opened by the other room's occupant.

Harry got quite the nasty shock when he realised that the youngster Tom had talked about was none other than his 16-year-old godfather, Sirius Black.

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A/N Please, read and review. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. I write fanfiction without making money, so it won't be perfect and will most likely have some plot holes.

Thank you to Magge, who has encouraged me, and read my drafts. 3.14

Chapter 3 – Swirling wound

* * *

Fate was cruel. Harry knew that. So many strange situations he had been put in during his years at Hogwarts, not talking about this last crazy year of travelling in a tent across the United Kingdom, and yet he had apparently not learned "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" by heart.

Was he a slow learner or what?

He tried to make his breaths deep and quiet, pretending to be asleep, to have not noticed Sirius's entry. No, he couldn't think of him as Sirius. That would be too hard, too emotional attached. Sirius wouldn't know Harry yet, and certainly not in this new body. Sirius was sixteen and so _young_, so whole and so happy.

…well, compared to what he had been in Harry's time.

Harry just slightly turned his head so he could get a better view of the well-groomed (that had been a surprise, Harry was after all more used to 12-years-in-Azkaban-Sirius) young man that was on the opposite end of the room. Sirius's hair was thicker and blacker than Harry thought it would be. But maybe it was just the sunglasses darkening it even more. This Sirius seemed free. He had a guarded look against Harry, but he seemed non-the-less more in control. Like he could choose what to do and what not, and that he had no reason to obey anyone. This Sirius, the past's Sirius, had the look of freedom that Harry had always wished for and never gotten. As quickly as it rose, Harry smothered the jealousy that burned in his stomach. Really, Sirius may be free now, but he wouldn't be in five years. He was about to loose everything. How then could Harry be so insolent to deny Sirius those few years of happiness?

_Emotional range of a tablespoon, you're name is Harry._ Ron was still the teaspoon.

Hermione's chant about not changing too much rang through Harry's head, making all other noises seeming dull and muffled. Voldemort was the one changing the timeline first, why couldn't Harry just… make the wrong things right? Everyone would be happy. He would have a family and Wormtail would be no where in sight, preferably locked up in Azkaban's deepest cell. Or he would just make things worse than they had been. How the situation could be any _inch_ worse than they were now, he didn't know. Hermione's frantic voice echoed in his mind. His ears still hurt from the yelling he had got before they began with the time-trips.

"_Don't you remember what I told you when we rescued Sirius in third year? Loads of wizards have ended up killing their past or future selves by mistake! It's even more important for you to remember that, because you might end up existing _not at all_! You. Affect. People. I don't care if You-Know-Who is sent to hell or if Pettigrew follows him, but you and I and others can end up so much worse!"_

"_But Hermione! We can _save_ people! Dumbledore! Sirius! Maybe our parents! Maybe…"_

"_Don't you dare say his name, Harry!"_

"_Maybe Ron."_

It was one of the most difficult decisions Harry had made when he didn't move from the bed to warn Sirius, to hug him, to _talk_ to him again, if only for a few seconds. He could see, rather than feel, how his fingers trembled against the light-blue blanket. He couldn't forget Hermione's face or the silence that had been so deep that he seemed to almost drown in it. He had tried to convince her, for what he thought was a good idea. Instead it had backfired.

"_Even so." Her shuddering breath clenched his heart and he regretted mentioning Ron. "We can't play around with time and try to create a new world which consequences we don't know! You could very well start World War III, or make the world explode in the next atomic war. Not even… _he_ is worth that sacrifice. We're just doing this because You-Know-Who did it before we could stop him, and you are sent back as a… surgical correction, if you so will. Nothing more."_

Even so, Harry reflected gloomily while he drifted off to a somewhat restless sleep, Hermione didn't sound at all convinced about what she had said. She had had to choose between what was right and what was easy, and all the while she looked like she was in great pain.

Harry woke up early, to the sound of Sirius's… _Black's_ heavy snores. Not even the birds had woken yet. Quickly and soundlessly (well, so soundless he could) Harry sneaked out of the room, down the corridor to the bathroom. The corridor was dark and quiet; he could hear the clinking from Tom's cauldrons down in the kitchen and the soft murmur of voices, suggesting that it wasn't so early that he had been led to believe. After a quick wash-up and tending of the wound (still disgusting, but it seemed to heal… somewhat), Harry walked awkwardly down the stairs. There were no guests, but the fire danced in the hearth and Gideon and Tom was at the far end of the room. By the look of their faces they were discussing grave matters over some bottle that didn't contain butterbeer. The sudden silence and the looks they sent Harry when he had given them a tentative "Good morning" made him feel like they had talked about him. Maybe they had. He shouldn't expect open arms when he wasn't open to them, but yet, he did. Sometimes he wondered if he was a lot like Dumbledore, or if he was just naïve.

"Um… Have you got any answer?"

"No", Tom gruffed, "and we don't expect any answer until tomorrow at the soonest." The old barman rose and walked on stiff legs up to Harry. "So, do you still feel up to cleaning?"

If it was something the Leaky Cauldron needed, it was a big, rough makeover. Now, as it wasn't within Harry's powers, he settled for work he was used to while cleaning Aunt Petunia's oh so sacred household. Even though it was years ago he had cleaned, it was so deeply ingrained in his memories, his muscles, his reflexes. What normal people would call a one-time-in-a-decade-house-cleaning, Petunia saw fit to have at least once a week. Twice when Harry had gotten older. And it got results. Within the hour the pub looked less black and more greyish. After two hours the hearth seemed to have regained some of its original white colour. At the third hour, Tom stepped out of the kitchen to tell Harry that the customers were going to get here soon, so if he still wanted to do some job he should see to the toilet in the corridor upstairs. Instead, he just stopped where he was and blinked.

"How the hell did you get it like this?"

Harry jumped at the sound of Tom's voice, knocking his head in a table.

"It's no good, sir?" He tried to keep the uncertainty from his voice, making it cool, steady, but inwards he felt like he had dropped his stomach and couldn't find it. Of course it wasn't good. Aunt Petunia would have a heart attack and then dispose his body if he had left her living room in this not even near half-finished stage.

"It's not good, it's bloody brilliant! It hasn't been this clean in at least twenty-five years. What magic did you use?"

"Uhm… I didn't… I mean, I thought it would be best to start from scratch. So I tossed out that _Everklena_-detergent you had and just used water and soap."

Tom just looked at him for a second and then began to laugh, a hearty laugh that made Harry feel like he had won the World Cup. Maybe there was some hope to get some trust after all.

"I can't very well order you to take the bathrooms now. Go and rest for a while." Harry nodded his admission and walked to his room. He wasn't tired as he couldn't feel his muscles, but it would be suspicious to decline.

Sometime during the day, between Harry's cleaning and resting, _Black_ had woken and disappeared. Harry didn't think much about it, indulging himself to the cleaning. As long as_ Black_ wasn't near, it would be easier to keep the distance. He smiled to himself when he dragged himself up the stairs that evening. Tom hadn't shown the customers his own surprise at the half-new state the Leaky Cauldron was in, but for every comment he received the laughing-wrinkles around his eyes became a little more noticeable.

If Harry thought fate had been cruel when giving him the same room as his late godfather, he hadn't really considered the possibilities that could happen. And so, he found himself more surprised than actually shocked later that evening. He hadn't really considered the fact that his _godfather_ was_ best friend_ with his _biological father_.

_Congratulations, Harry, I think a__n Order of Merlin, First Class, is in order._

"Mister Prongs am sorry Mister Padfoot, but really", James drawled walking into the room, "why you decided to leave Grimmauld Place when my family was in France beats me. If you had left one day earlier you could have followed!"

Harry momentarily tensed before relaxing back to his half-sleep. His father had been in France with his parents. Would he have taken Harry to France, too, if he had lived? Would they have visited the same cities that Hermione and her parents had seen?

"Ah, not my fault, Prongs. But anyway, did you see that awesome motorbike! I'm sure that with only some modifications we can make it fly!" Sirius almost squeeled with joy. "We'll be the sky's Masters! Masters with a big M!"

"What are you talking about Padfoot? We _are_ the sky's Masters already. Quidditch, remember?"

"Prongs, my dear friend… tell me, can a broom _roar_? No, I didn't think so. When I get that motorbike… Until then we can't really call ourselves Masters with a big M, can we?"

While they packed, Harry was laying on the other bed, soaking up their words as a sponge. He heard his father's voice, when it wasn't panicked. Except that it wasn't his father's. James wasn't his father yet. His voice was too young; sounding like a boy's more than a man's. He was handsome, black unruly hair and a long straight nose. He wasn't much different from how he had looked in Snape's memory, except having a darker tan. He didn't look like he could father a boy. Like he could be a father. He wasn't a father, Harry reminded himself. He wasn't Harry's father. The boy tried to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to strangle him. He almost missed how James stopped Black from leaving a practical joke as a present.

"Cut it out, Sirius." There was seriousness in James's voice that hadn't really been present before.  
"But why? It's just a laugh…"

"I'm not so sure that Moony would think so… not after last time." All laughter from Sirius's face was gone, replaced by a grimace. "I think", James continued carefully, taking consideration to Sirius's feelings and the sleeping (possibly eavesdropping) stranger in the same room, "that you can be friends soon if you just… take it easy some days… weeks… months… And if you have to, make sure that he doesn't hear about it."

Grumbling, Sirius actually listened to his best friend, and left the room with no further ado. James followed, slamming the door after him. They left a stranger, a shaking boy who just wanted to die.

His heart threatened to burst out of his chest with its hard dr-drumming. He felt drained and hits of nausea shivered through him. If Harry had known this would happen when he met his father, - no, _James_, he would've fought to get another room. He wasn't this nervous usually, was he? Not so nervous that he would get sick. The sweat clamped the hair to his forehead and made the sunglasses slippery. It made him feel cold, he felt the prickles over his skin and how every hair on his head raised itself, almost as if they were full of life. And then he realized, after several minutes, that he felt the rough blanket against his fingertips. He didn't see himself shaking; he _felt_ them, every little tremor through his body, through his _nerves_. And he felt how something wet trickled from his side, giving a ticklish feeling on the skin. It took some seconds before he bolted to the door, running down the corridor to the biggest bathroom. As soon as he had locked the door he took a deep breath, the air so sweet and full in his lungs, almost feeling like he would burst. He could feel the oxygen getting in to his blood and the blood dropping from his side and the wound began to feel stiff along the edges, making it hard to bend. He had to work quick before this procedure reached its climax, before he felt everything and would become incapacitated.

It got worse by the minute, but he managed to cringe off his shirt and tending the wound. Everything would have turned out fine, if he hadn't accidently hit his elbow in a cabinet when reaching out to the bandages. Despite the muffled yelp and the enhanced pain that coursed through his arm he tried to catch the roll that he dropped, and in the process he tipped a lot of bottles and cleaning attires that he wouldn't be able to catch even if he had as many arms as the Large Squid. Being Harry, he tried and failed miserably, succumbing to the chaos.

Tom looked up from the dishes.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yeah." Even before Tom's question, Gideon had broken into a quiet run up the stairs. The few guests that were left were engrossed in their discussion about the latest rumours of another family being victim of You-Know-Who's supporters. As subtle as was possible Tom followed, leaving Fabian in charge if something downstairs would happen.

The corridor was dark, but light shone through the narrow chinks over and under the bathroom door. Bottles fell from the inside and a quiet moan was heard. Gideon looked at Tom, a question in his eyes. Tom knocked softly on the door. The stillness behind the door was getting eerie.

"We heard a loud noise. Is everything alright?" Gideon stayed silent, still prepared.

"Y…yes. Splendid. Nothing wrong." It was Harry's voice, a little too high than it should be. Gideon stiffed noticeably. Another heavy bottle fell, echoing in the bathroom.

"Harry?"

"Yes, everything's fine!" Another series of thumps was heard. "Just an accident… I'll fix it!" Tom shared a look with Gideon.

"We're coming in Harry." Gideon gave him a somewhat annoyed look. Way to go, informing enemies when they would take action. Real British.

"No!"

"Sorry Harry, but I'm gonna open this door in five seconds. Five. Four."

"No! Please!" A loud rustling was heard, stressed movements from the other side.

"Two. One." Gideon sent a silent alohomora at the lock. The door glided open and revealed a small disaster. A rolled out bandaged was all over the floor, and tilted bottles, some of them pouring out potions that Harry had tried to dry up with paper. Harry himself was on his knees, clutching a shirt at a wound in his side, trying to stop the bleeding. His hand and the floor underneath him were red with thick blood. Every place that Harry had touched had smeared blood on them.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'll clean this up, I swear!" Harry made some frantic movements towards the bottles, but his hand trembled so hard that he couldn't reach the nearest bottle. How could Tom ever had had thought of him as a man, and not a boy? It was so easy now to see how scared and hurt he was. Merlin, how could he have worked all day without showing any sign of being in pain? He called for Gideon, but the redhead was already taking Harry in his arms. While Gideon carried Harry carefully to his room, Tom sent his patronus on an emergency call to Poppy Pomfrey. She was the one that would always come at the moment she was needed, no unnecessary delays. Then he took the first aid kit he stored in the bathroom, it was one of the many things that had fallen on to the floor, and ran like he hadn't done for twenty years to Harry's room. He was much too old and used to the world to gag at the amount of blood that was on Harry, on the bed, on Gideon's arms. He just concentrated to stop the bleeding with Gideon's assistance. By the time Poppy got there both of them had almost given up on Harry's life that seemed to flow away more and more. He was pale, so pale that he almost seemed like a part of the linen he was laying on. The only thing of little colour on him seemed to be the unruly hair and he sunglasses, that was tilted where he lay. It was blood smear on them, in a failed attempt of Gideon to remove them. Behind the dark glasses Tom could see Harry's eyes roll upwards in pain… and something swirling in them? He grabbed Gideon's arm, nudging to his discover, not saying anything out-loud with a frantic Madam Pomfrey on the loose. By the reaction he got from Gideon, the young man had seen it too. It wasn't just Tom's eyes that played some tricks then.

"You two! Be useful and get some boiling water and an Infectus Potion!" Poppy barked at the two men, which scampered away like two mice from a lion.

After what felt like hours, but could just as well be a mere thirty minutes, Harry's critical situation seemed to stabilize. Tom stood beside the nurse, looking down at the heavy sleeping boy.

"How is he?"

"Stable", Poppy all but snapped. Tom gave a thoughtful nod and stayed silent, while she tended to the bandages. It seemed like he wasn't in her favour after letting the boy work a whole day with that kind of wound. He couldn't blame her, but how was he supposed to know? Harry had hidden it well, too well. Why did he hide such injuries so efficiently at such a young age? Was he used to hiding bruises?

"Have you seen his eyes?"

Poppy just gave him a look that could petrify stones and kill dragons.

"They're swirling."

She gave him a sharp glare, before ushering him out of the room. Before the door was closed with a swish from her wand, Tom saw how she carefully removed the sunglasses to see what they were hiding.

"How is he doing?" Gideon asked in a low voice, when Tom had gotten to the other end of the corridor. The young man still had Harry's blood on his arms, with no time to wash it away. Maybe he felt like he couldn't wash it away before he knew how things worked out. The Prewett family just was like that. The twins' sister Molly, now named Weasly, was almost as bad as her brothers together. War did this to people, even to those who had been calm in the beginning.

"He's doing fine. But I think we should contact Dumbledore again. You better wash that off ", he nodded at Gideon's blood-drenched hands, "before going down. We don't want to give people a reason to panic." They had reasons enough as it was. Gideon just nodded absentmindedly, walking down to the bathroom where they had found Harry, cleaning up there as well and cancelling the confundus charm that got people to use the other bathrooms. Tom had probably brought it up when he was too busy worrying over the boy he didn't know a knut about. But Gideon couldn't really blame him, as he had been caring about Harry, too. He had carried him. He had felt the pain-filled shivers from the boy's body, and he had seen how life left him with the blood. He had noticed those few seconds when Harry was in his arms that Harry had been in too great a pain to actually vocalize it, or give any noise as indication. It reminded him too much of the Cruciatus curse to make him feel comfortable. And, Merlin, he was just a boy. Gideon didn't really consider himself as old, but when he saw Harry like that and when he remembered all the other victims that he had seen and helped and failed, he just felt very old, too old. Almost older than Albus Dumbledore.

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A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews. I appreciate them very much.

**To those who wondered: ****I'm still writing this story and will continue to do so. I've finished the story-line and the main plots. It's the writing and my real life that takes time, but I will finish this story (and hopefully be a better writer in the process).**

**Please leave reviews, so that I can become a better writer (or just encouraged to continue).**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. I write fanfiction without making money, so it won't be perfect and will most likely have some plot holes.**

Chapter 4 – Before the Taking of Toast and Tea

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Harry watched the cracks in the ceiling; he saw them stretch out and cross each other, looking like a colourless map. If he strained himself, he could have heard (or imagining hearing) the murmurs of the people in the pub and the rustle of robes moving. He gave a glance towards the big, puffy orange-striped chair at the side of the bed, where Albus Dumbledore had seated himself.

"Professor Dumbledore", he greeted. His voice was raw and sounded strange in his ears. It was not his voice. Slowly, numbly, Harry touched his face. His glasses weren't on him, they were at the tableside. So both Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore had seen the green in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but have we met Mr …?"

Dumbledore's voice was calm and politely questioning, with a guarded tone slightly beneath the surface. Before Harry could process his own grief over the old man, his body answered by itself by reflex.

"Yu." He tried to cover his mistake, but he knew it was already too late. "Harry Yu." He saw in the corner of his eye that Dumbledore had straightened in the chair.

"You are the missing boy from the Doolally-attack? I was under the impression that your name was Yang Yu." Harry kept staring at the ceiling. Dumbledore's words washed over him and the body he wore made him ache so much. The boy's (Yang's?) brain remembered the woman running down the stairs and the man's legs in what was once their kitchen. He remembered how his body had tried to protect Chun, and how he had failed. He wasn't fit to be called a big brother. He wasn't worthy to even think of her name.

"We need to talk." It was hard to press the words out of his closing throat, but he succeeded. "Can we go to your office now?" He could feel how Dumbledore scrutinized him over those half-moon spectacles. The old wizard didn't ask him why they couldn't talk in this room with all the protection-charms that were surrounding them; maybe he had heard the importance in Harry's voice or he had used the legilimency stroking lightly over Harry's thoughts to get a feeling of the intentions in such a request. Harry never thought that Dumbledore would actually try to break into his mind, at least not when he was in this vulnerable state. Dumbledore had never been like Snape.

Besides, Pomfrey would take actions even Voldemort would fear if her new patient was harmed.

"It may be wise to wait a day or two, Mr Yu. Madam Pomfrey would have my head otherwise. How do you feel?"

Frightened. What if he failed?

Scared beyond belief. What if he was discovered?

Tortured. Why 1976?

Hopeful. The old bastard wouldn't have any safe-lines left if Harry and Hermione succeeded.

Despair. What was the difference if he let Voldemort live or die? What kind of life had Harry left? How many friends were still alive? How many dreams had been crushed to never be restored?

"Tingling."

"That would be your nerves re-growing, and really Headmaster, you shouldn't tire him out! Get out! You can talk to him later!" Dumbledore rose, and the chair turned back its appearance to a normal wooden chair.

"Very well, Poppy. But inform me when our guest feels better. Until next time, Mr Yu." The old man inclined his head, studying Harry's swirling eyes with a rather mysterious expression in his own blue.

It took a night and the most of the next morning until Madam Pomfrey was prepared to let Harry go. Even when she did, she was most unhappy and complained under low breaths that she had never had such a stubborn patient before and that she never wanted to see Harry injured again. Harry almost felt sorry for her, so he was very obedient to her orders and did not utter another word about the meeting (and its importance) with Dumbledore that was going to be held during the afternoon.

"Your _nerves_, young boy, is much more important than a ruddy meeting!" he heard her mutter. The nurse, however, was much tenderer in her hands than in her voice. "Does this hurt? Hm, yes, it should, with a bruise like that… Now, Mr Yu, I expect you to not do anything foolish like exert yourself. Keep away from cold places…"

"It's _July_", Harry couldn't help but interrupt.

"…from _cold places_ and don't expose yourself to great stress. Eat and sleep properly. If you do everything I say you may have full recovery in five, six months."

"_Half a year?_" Harry stared at her wide-eyed. He couldn't have the wound stopping him; he was supposed to chase horcruxes for Merlin's sake!

Madam Pomfrey just gave him a stare that made all his protests stock in his throat.

"It will be longer if you don't follow my recommendations." Her voice had no mercy in it, and Harry was glad when a subtle knock on the door let know that Dumbledore had arrived.

"Are you ready Mr Yu?" He stood there, tall and solemn in midnight blue robes.

"Yeah. Thank you, Madam Pomfrey." She just gave a glare.

"You know very well that I'm going to meet you at dinner." It sounded more like a threat than a reassurance, and Harry thought she meant it that way. Seriously, she was making him stress more than anything else, wasn't that contra-productive?

The air seemed less dense, though, and even though Dumbledore didn't have his twinkle in his eyes or even showed a smile, Harry felt that the old wizard was more at ease than before. Or it was just his hopes flaring up, in reaction to his nervousness.

Even though Harry had tried his best to act calm, his feet betrayed him when he went through the green fire into the Headmaster's room. He never was good with other ways of transportations than a broom. Dumbledore's arm holding him up was surprisingly strong for a man his age (he was after all in his 90s), and his swift walk to the Headmaster's chair was more powerful than a young man's ever could be. Harry wondered idly if he would walk like that when he reached Dumbledore's age. If he reached it.

"Mr Yu, please take a seat."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry seated himself comfortably and put his hands together and took a deep breath to calm the clenching nerves in his stomach.

"You had something urgent to tell me, I believe." Even though Dumbledore's voice was polite Harry couldn't hear the warmth it usually held when _his_ Dumbledore had talked to him. This Dumbledore acted like Harry was a potential dangerous stranger. Even though Dumbledore's hands were on the desk, fingertips against fingertips, Harry had the feeling that if needed Dumbledore's wand was just nanoseconds away to curse him.

_Good way to go, Harry. That thought made this conversation _loads_ easier to have._

"Professor Dumbledore", here Harry took a deep breath, "what do you know about horcruxes?"

Nothing really changed after Harry had asked his question, but at the same time _everything_ had changed. The silver instruments on the desk continued to spin and sound softly, the chair he sat in was still comfortable and the portraits still whispered eagerly about this strange person and his strange question and Dumbledore hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. And yet the whole atmosphere seemed so dense that it was hard to breathe and even though the sun shone through the window, the air seemed darker.

"I've heard about them. But it surprises me that someone as young as you, Mr Yu, even knows about the word." The tone was still polite and even, but Harry thought he heard an underlying tone of warning.

"You told me all about them, Professor." Here Dumbledore blinked. He wouldn't have had any student to talk about Voldemort's horcruxes, of course. Did he even know at this time that Voldemort had gone through such a horrible ritual, multiple times, at that? Harry doubted that strongly. Dumbledore didn't seem to be confused though, only wearier.

"You can call me Harry. I was you student. Currently, I'm borrowing Yang Yu's body." As soon as the words had dropped out of Harry's mouth, he knew they sounded wrong. Without hesitation he dived out of the chair before a red beam could hit him.  
"Hey, hey, hey! Let me explain! It's not like that! I didn't kill him!" The polite Dumbledore was gone. The wizard that stood behind the desk with the long wand pointed at Harry radiated power and no mercy. For the first time ever, Harry was genuinely scared of Dumbledore; he couldn't grasp how Voldemort ever had the idea of opposing the old man. If he hadn't already known it, Harry would have strongly suspected old snake-face to be out of his mind. So he did what every other sane person would have done, he raised his hands in surrender.

"Please, let me explain. I don't even have a wand. I can even take Veritaserum, just please listen." A tense second past, and Harry thought he would die. His heart felt like it had stopped beating out of shear fear.

"Very well." Albus Dumbledore's voice was cold and demanding. Carefully, Harry removed his sunglasses. It was hard to look into Dumbledore's icy eyes, but Harry made himself do it while seating again. He would have to convince Dumbledore, at any cost.

"So." He let out another deep breath. Damn, this was hard. It felt like he was balancing on a knife's edge. On one side was help and warmth; on the other, basilisk poison.

"I'm from the future."

"You've been here for days. No time-turner can send you back that long." Harry got a feeling that now Dumbledore didn't consider him only as dangerous, but also as a lunatic. Harry just met his old professor's gaze.

"I know. We didn't use a time-turner."

"We?"

"Me and a friend of mine. I'm coming to that later. You need the background information first." He took Dumbledore's silence as an approval of continuing. "I'm from several years into the future. Right now, I'm not even born." That was a strange thought, as he felt himself existing. _Cogito, ergo sum_, like Hermione had said. "You told me that Voldemort had made six horcruxes, and it is my quest to find them and destroy them." Dumbledore looked sick and shocked by the number of times Voldemort had divided his own soul. Maybe the headmaster looked disturbed because he deep down didn't doubt his former student to do something like that. Rather, he felt, he should have expected something like that.

"Why you?"

"Convenience. Anyways, Voldemort realized what we were doing and decided to make the game more interesting." Here Harry made a face. "He used an ancient ritual. Those horcruxes that were left was sent to different times. My friend and I used a different, and probably a much more ethical ritual, that allows me to act like a chaser. Find the horcrux, destroy it, go back to my time, mission completed." There was a short silence.

"Will you really go back to your time then?"

"_If you don't change too much Harry, you will"_, he remembered Hermione answer when he had asked the same question.

"That depends. If I don't change too much, I will. So far, it has worked." When he saw Dumbledore's pondering gaze he sighed. Unintentionally, he adopted Hermione's patient tone and her words when she had explained the river-theory to him.

"Look, our theory" _Hermione's theory_ "is that time is like a river. Voldemort has thrown a hypothetical stone – the horcruxes – into the river. The time or water or whatever, flows beside the stone. The river is momentarily divided, but becomes the same river again later on. Unfortunately, if we don't destroy the horcrux, Voldemort will achieve his goal of immortality. Therefore, I was sent to destroy the stone. If I succeed, the stone won't have done any greater difference and I'll be sent back to my time. If I don't succeed in destroying the stone or if I stay too long, then the river will divide completely. I don't know what will happen then and I don't intend to find out."

Dumbledore melted the theory by taking a lemon drop from out of his drawer.

"How many times have you… let's say, united the river?" Dumbledore asked while offering Harry the bowl of lemon drops.

"Um… well, small changes still happens, sir. But this is my fourth try and as far as me and my friend can tell, history's main events haven't changed." He took one of the small yellow sweets, popping it into his mouth.

"Are all the horcruxes in the same era?"

Harry shook his head, sucking on the sour candy. "No. But all are in times of war."

Dumbledore nodded, deep in thought. Harry's lemon drop was almost gone when he got the next question.

"What are the horcruxes?"

"Different things. Souvenirs." Dumbledore looked sharply up at the last word. That did indeed sound like Tom Riddle's style. "The ones that are destroyed are a family ring from Voldemort's mother's side, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket and an old diary old Tom created."

"You know his name." Dumbledore just received a wry smile.

"Well, it was an essential part of what you told me about him." And maybe for the first time during the conversation, Harry actually thought that Dumbledore had begun to give him the chance of belief.

"And every time you destroy a horcrux you are sent back", Dumbledore repeated.

"Yes, sir", Harry confirmed accepting a second lemon drop.

"You mentioned four horcruxes that had been destroyed, though."

"Yeah. You destroyed the ring in my time."

Dumbledore made a humming noise and the wizard fell silent yet again.

"So this horcrux is with high probability an artefact of Rowena Ravenclaw or Godric Gryffindor."

"Probably Ravenclaw, Professor. You didn't think that Voldemort had gotten his hands on anything belonging to Gryffindor." Harry put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. "But that's all I know. Or all I'm suspecting. I don't know what kind of artefact there is after Ravenclaw, or if the horcrux in this time even is Ravenclaw's. It could be whatever. I'm lost. I don't know what to do. I don't know where to find it. I don't have a bloody wand, because Yang's snapped during the battle. I knew how the locket and the cup and the diary looked, but now I have no clue. What shall I do?"

Harry hadn't really meant to babble about his worries like that, the words just fell out of his mouth like heavy stones, impossible to stop when once started to roll. The burden of the stones never left him, though, as he had expected. The situation felt just the same as when he had began to talk, and he didn't understand why he had thought that telling Dumbledore would change anything. What did he expect the old wizard to do? Fix the problem for him? Answer all of Harry's questions? Becoming Harry's very own, personal, therapist?

Hermione would love that, killing two birds with one stone. Dumbledore would get information and Harry wouldn't bottle up his feelings anymore.

Except, of course, that this wasn't Harry's or Hermione's Dumbledore. This was a younger version.

Oh God. What had he done? He had told Dumbledore way too much of his mission. He had changed Dumbledore's knowledge; he had changed Dumbledore, which ultimately led to changing the timeline. Dumbledore was one of the most influential wizards of the century. It was unavoidable that people and time changed, but in a situation where silence and secrets were golden Harry had thrown away every galleon just to get a possible moment of peace. He never got it, and his secrets were spilled. No return. He couldn't very well obliviate Dumbledore, could he?

…Could he?

No, the thought disappeared almost as fast as it had crossed his mind. In a try to sooth himself while breathing deeply, he remembered that he hadn't told Dumbledore everything. Yes, he had revealed much, but not everything. Dumbledore never needed to know the rest. Those secrets Harry would keep.

But for how long? Dumbledore was a Legilimence, after all.

"I suggest", Dumbledore's calm and strong voice broke through Harry's whirling breakdown, "that we think through this calmly. No panicking. Would you like some tea?"

Harry just stared. He just couldn't make himself respond. Tea?

"I take that as a yes." And with a little flick with his wand, Dumbledore had conjured a teapot with a cherry blossoms and star-pattern and two matching cups that may have been a gift from Hagrid, judging by the size.

"Do you prefer milk in your tea? No?" Dumbledore poured up the vague yellow liquid into both cups and gave Harry one of them.

"Anything else? Sugar or honey perhaps?"

Harry just shook his head, sipping carefully from the hot drink. He felt how his muscles began to relax, how his nerves didn't seem so tense or painful knotted anymore. Had Dumbledore put a Calming Drought in the tea?

"Scented mayweed. A very relaxing herb. No need for other supplements."

"Oh." Harry took another little sip. "I shouldn't have told you as much as I did", he stated, regret in his voice. "I don't know why I did it, I haven't told anyone else like this before, or at least no that much."

"Really, Harry? Or shall I say Mrs Elizabeth Smith?"

Harry almost dropped the cup, splashing the tea over his robes. The hot liquid sank through the clothes' soft material, making Harry hiss of tingling burning pain. Dumbledore just swished with his wand and Harry's clothes was yet again dry, just a tad warmer than before.

"You _knew_?!" Oh sweet Merlin! Hermione would kill him. He hadn't been as discreet as he had thought he was, Dumbledore knew. Shit. He had changed history more than he thought. Double shit.

"No. I merely had a lucky guess, and you confirmed it. More tea, perhaps?"

"That was no lucky guess!" accused Harry. "You knew. But how?" He needed to know so that he didn't repeat the mistake this time around. Not even Mrs Smith's niece had suspected that Harry had taken over the old lady's body for two weeks.

Dumbledore just drank calmly from his own tea, leaning back into the chair.

"Hepzibah Smith visited a neighbour of mine, in my youth. As I recall, she held a grudge towards her great-aunt Elizabeth Smith for loosing an invaluable heirloom." Dumbledore offered the information, looking over his teacup at Harry who groaned.

"Well, you better remember just who introduced you to those lemon drops", Harry growled, refilling his cup with the mild tea. He needed to relax. He had a moment of satisfaction when Dumbledore seemed to choke of the thought.

"Don't worry, Professor, you would have discovered lemon drops anyway, sooner or later." _Your obsession wouldn't be any weaker._

Harry waited until Dumbledore had began breathing normally again before he spoke seriously, swallowing his pride. This was about the world, not about Harry. He clenched his fists, trying to sound earnest but not as embarrassed as he felt.

"Professor, I don't have any possessions here. I don't have a wand. I won't be able to find the horcruxes, even less destroy them if I am defenceless. I promise I will pay back everything if I can just borrow seven galleons for a wand."

Dumbledore just studied him over that damned cup. That gaze was so penetrating. Harry couldn't help but squirm a little in his seat.

"And prey tell, what would you do Harry, when you have a wand?"

Harry just looked at him. Hadn't Dumbledore heard him?

"I'm going to chase the horcrux."

Dumbledore refilled his own cup.

"I thought you said that you hadn't got a clue what or where it was."

Harry wanted to throw the teapot at the old man, how infuriating that calm tone was! He shouldn't have told about his worries.

"I will know soon enough. When my nerves has calmed down, I will feel a" _very weak_ "tugging when I'm close to a horcrux. It will be fine. I have done this before", he all but snapped irritably. Dumbledore wasn't that slightest bit moved by the rudeness Harry was displaying.

_Brilliant__ tactic for asking for money, Harry. Perfectly splendid._

"How old are you Harry?"

The question caught Harry off guard. Whatever was the importance of his age in this situation?

"I'm of age, and have been for a while", he sniffed, sounding alarmingly like Percy Weasly on prefect duty. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't really sure how old he was. He _felt_ so much older than eighteen. He had lived more than nine months in times that wasn't his own, his soul had matured and grown, while his body was still in a comatose that made his own time seem so slow, almost as if it had been standing still while he had been gone. It wasn't like that, Harry knew, but there was a high probability that it still would be the beginning of September 1998 when he returned.

Did that mean that he was soon older than Hermione?

What creeped him out, however, was that Dumbledore just continued to look at him before the old wizard threw a purple spell that seemed to make Harry's pale skin shine in a vague red sort of shimmer. A frowned formed on Dumbledore's wrinkled forehead.

"I'm sorry to say this, Harry, but you still got the Trace on you. If you use a wand you'll be found by the Ministry and they'll break it", Dumbledore explained, seeing the alarmed expression on the youth.

It took a couple of seconds for Harry to process Dumbledore's solemn words.

"But… but it hasn't happened before!" Harry exclaimed, his voice reaching a higher pitch. "I've always used a wand, and no one has Traced me!"

"But then, you haven't been in an under aged body either, am I correct?"

"I have! Once!" Before Harry could develop a ranting with a huge potential, he stopped sidetracked by a thought. "But it was some centuries before the Witch Huntings… Would that make a difference, you think?"

"Certainly. The Trace didn't come to use before the 14th century. Do tell me, how was it, living in that time? Were you able to understand the spoken language or were you constricted to your own knowing of modern English? How…"

A silver instrument let out a small chip-chip-chip sound and Dumbledore seemed rather put out.

"Another time we can have this little medieval chat, perhaps. Madam Pomfrey awaits you. Before you go, Harry, I want you to think over a proposition."

"Sure", Harry shrugged.

"What do you say of becoming a Hogwarts student this year, Harry?" Dumbledore folded his long fingers on the desk while Harry dropped his jaw.

"But… I won't be staying here for that long", he exclaimed, shocked that the Headmaster came to think of such an absurd plan.

"Maybe, maybe not. If you disappear, we can always lay the blame on Lord Voldemort. Merlin knows people won't suspect that explanation", Dumbledore added with a bitter, sad sort of tone.

"Think about the possibilities", coaxed Dumbledore when he saw that Harry still was uncertain. "You could borrow Hogwarts Library for research (even the Restricted Section); you would get money from Hogwarts's Student Found for a wand and necessary equipment. Besides, maybe you will learn something from the lessons? As an old teacher I know too well that some knowledge disappears as soon as it can."

And the most important reason Dumbledore didn't mention, but Harry suspected, was to keep the time-traveller close by. Just in case.

"People would suspect me. I survived an attack. I can't show them my eyes."

"We can say that the aurors found you barely alive, and that your eyes condition comes from a very dark, very rare curse. No one will be any the wiser. You can live at the Leaky Cauldron until the term starts, where Tom can help you in your search." _And keep eyes on me_, Harry thought cynically. "Tom's a barman; he'll hear things that you may miss."

"We can't tell him about the horcruxes."

"No", Dumbledore agreed. "But we can tell him that you are important in the war. He will search for threats even more eagerly. I think he took a liking to you."

"What will we do when I find the horcrux?"

"We could arrange something that wouldn't be suspicious. A family meeting. A trip to St Mungo's. We'll think of that when the time comes."

"Does Hogwarts even allow transfer students?"

"It isn't unheard of. You will be a special case of course, but due to your family's sudden demise I don't think that people would bother you as much. The teachers are a great buffer if nothing else."

"But what if I change the timeline? What if I erase the existence of a person? What if my presence here changes everything!" It was hard to keep the panic out of his voice. It was even more annoying that the more stressed Harry became, Dumbledore appeared to be calmer.

"Why would you think that it is such a bad thing?"

"What? Excuse me, I don't think I heard you", Harry almost snarled.

Hermione had already made sure that Harry wasn't thinking along the lines of Dumbledore. She would kill him if his resolve would fail now.

"Voldemort has already changed the history you know of. I think it is probable that this universe we are in now is an alternative to your universe… not necessarily the same river, if you so want. Maybe time is like ripples in water, and Voldemort through a stone – a horcrux – beside the centre of the ripples, creating new ripples interfering with the old ones."

"…You're giving me a headache."

It had taken ages for Hermione to explain her river-theory to Harry without him being too confused about it; he had no hopes of understanding Dumbledore's philosophy. The best way to go along with it, Harry had found, was to nod and smile and try not to think too deeply. It kept Hermione happy at least.

How he wished she were here! She would understand Dumbledore. They would have had a great discussion about time travelling and alternative universes, and they would enjoy the theories. He didn't, particularly. They felt too abstract at the same time as they were too real and he just wanted this to be over with and get home. He felt so stretched out.

"Point is, Harry, that when you try to take away the disruption that the horcrux creates, you make a disruption yourself. This is not your timeline, even though it is almost identical. You yourself create new ripples in the water just by being here, whether you act or stay passive. If we go with the river-theory, you can say that there is some spill from the river. That is the changes in that timeline you've visited that can't unite with the main stream (your original time), thus creating an alternative universe. And I do wonder if it isn't the same universe you travel to all the time, as you at least have been in this one before as old Mrs Smith."

Harry blinked.

"…You've lost me. Sorry. Maybe another time…"

"We can find more time to talk about this intriguing situation if you were to become a student here."

That wasn't really as tempting as Dumbledore made it sound. He should have met Hermione.

"You will be closer to information that can make your search easier and quicker."

That argument made it. He had little to lose, hadn't he? And time was of a greater value than discretion, as he had learned when he had stayed in the 1940's.

"It would probably be best if we say I'm a Ravenclaw", he stated after a few seconds of silence. "Then I can read as many books as I want without it being abnormal, and I don't have to be social either."

Dumbledore practically beamed at him, blue eyes twinkling.

They sealed the deal with a lemon drop, that almost choked Harry to death when Madam Pomfrey flooed into the office, demanding to take over her patient for the rest of the evening.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading (and reviewing ;D ).**

**And many thanks to the fantastic reviews, story alerts and fav status I've gotten! They have helped in my writing. I hope you enjoy the story this far.**


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